


Triskelion

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, Characters - Well-handled romance/eroticism, General, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Fast moving, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Plot - Joy, War of the Ring, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2002-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-06 19:20:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4233652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Eowyn finds her happy ending with Faramir, she knew fear and sorrow...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Violation (Wormtongue)

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

  
Night after night, upon that which I privately deem my 'insomniac patrol' through the Halls of Edoras, the burning torch in my hand illuminates couples rutting in dark corners. They pay me no heed - caught up in the escape given them through their flesh - but the brief glimpses I catch sear   
themselves into my mind.  
  
It is at night that the doubts and fears that assail me are at their worst. At night I wonder what became of the pride and dignity of the House of Eorl, for at night when I walk through the castle alone the sounds of lust are heard more prevalent than the soft, snoring sounds of sleep...  
  
The thick, pungent odour of sex that is in the air, that is drawn into my lungs with every breath, is as familiar to me -although I am yet a maid- as familiar as woodsmoke. The sticky, sweaty sounds of two bodies in a frantic, carnal embrace: the animal grunts, the whispered endearments and obscenities... these, too, are familiar... I cannot help but wonder when it was that the Golden Hall became a bawdy-house.  
  
In the back of my mind twisted visions of those intertwined bodies coupling in the shadows replay when there is nothing else to occupy my mind but the fear in my heart. A fear that I would give anything to voice, to free myself from - but my silence is an act of protection for those dear to me: my Uncle and my brother. And yet I fear that protection may that which is my damnation. My skin crawls at the phantom feeling of Gríma's hands upon my thighs, lifting my skirts...  
  
A shake of my head to clear it - the awful truth that I deny when I can returning to the forefront of my mind. He needs not to spread my legs and lay between them to bring me pain, shame or the sense of utter violation. For with his voice, with those dark eyes that undresses me with a gaze and with the few occasions I have had to suffer his touch he has already brought those emotions.  
  
The counsellor's lusts have not, in spite of my fervent prayers, diminished over time. If anything, like the appetites of a hunting dog are whetted by the chase, so too it seems has his desire for me only increased as my own resistance did.  
  
Gríma's never-ending pursuit, the cold fear his insidious dark eyes inspire... these are the reasons why I disdain the sights and sounds of lovers coupling in the dark. These are the reasons why I taste bile in the back of my throat and shudder with such revulsion. For my mind insists upon taunting me with conjured horrors, insists upon torturing me by placing me as the girl with her back pressed to cold stone - be it wall or floor - and places Gríma between my thighs, taking that which he has long desired.  
  
The fear of having to submit to that taking - be it for my own protection or that of those dear to me, be it more simply that there is no other choice... I've read poetry that describe sex as 'making love', as an act of tenderness; the giving and receiving of pleasure - and that confuses me. Perhaps that is why the Rohirrim call me 'stern', 'aloof' and 'cold'. I argue not with the labels, for, indeed, I have yet to lay eyes upon any whom could even begin to melt the mighty frost that I have gathered about my heart as armour against the determined pursuit of Gríma Wormtongue. And any thoughts of sex that enter my mind are not the rose-tinted visions of a young girl's fantasy. How could such vulnerability, such openness be sweet? - it is surrender. And I know of no man to whom I would surrender.  
  
*  
  
The next morning when I bring my beloved uncle his breakfast, he is not alone. For the past several years I have managed to get to Théoden with his food early enough to avoid Gríma - but not this morn. He is there watching me, though I turn my eyes not upon him I can feel his eyes upon me. My hand shakes when I set the tray down upon the King's table, and it takes a physical effort of will to pull a mantle of good cheer about me enough to greet my uncle. The affection is not feigned, but the ease and calm certainly are.  
  
Helping the old man to his feet and across to the table - who, not so long ago was not this old... How could one so hale fall into a dotage so swiftly? I slip into the almost scripted conversation: its habitual repetition soothing, calming. I need not think of anything, just focus on my task and try not to dwell upon the eyes that burn into my back. "You slept well, I trust?"  
  
"Deeply, yet somehow restlessly, Sister-daughter," Théoden admits as I support his weight, easing him into the dining chair.  
  
The answer is not uncommon, but the worry that springs from it does not ease with time. I bend a little to place a gentle kiss upon my Uncle's brow. "Perhaps we should send for a healer... to prepare a sleeping draught for you?"  
  
As ever, the suggestion is rejected with a grumbling acknowledgement that he knows I suggest it only out of love, but a reminder that the old soldier distrusts leeches. I cannot help but turn my gaze upon Wormtongue, the bitterness in my heart crying out 'if only that were true!'.  
  
It chills the fiery blood in my veins to see the look upon his face as he returns my gaze. There is a slow smile beginning to form upon that poisonous mouth and in his eyes - the sinister, ever-patient rictus grin of a snake luring its prey ever closer. Even though I swore never, ever give ground to him, I find myself kissing Théoden's cheek and murmuring something about a fabricated errand I need to run.  
  
"Such devotion." Wormtongue speaks and my head snaps around to him - my eyes upon him for fear of what he might say, what he might do.  
  
Théoden's gaze also lifts to his counsellor, "Gríma?"  
  
One clammy-skinned hand gestures towards me, and I almost recoil a step, lifting a hand in readiness to defend my self. Almost. I catch myself mid-motion and instead place that hand upon my Uncle's shoulder.  
  
"The devotion with which the Lady Éowyn tends thee, my Lord. It is quite moving..." I meet his eyes and smile coldly: If it is moving, I try to say without words, then please, do get moving. Move far away from this place and leave my kin and I in peace. But it is I who moves, taking my leave and starting to exit even as Théoden comments fondly that, no, he could not have   
had a better nurse.  
  
As I pass him, Gríma takes the hand I raised in farewell to my uncle in his own hand. His movement is fluid, natural - as if he has every right to take my hand in his own. Bastard. There is nothing subtle about it; he is entrapping me within the ancient manners of court. To pull my hand from his would be a personal insult, especially under the gaze of the Lord of the Mark...  
  
"Counsellor?" I raise my eyebrows in question, struggling for a neutral facial expression.  
  
The struggle is compounded when Gríma looks me full in the face, his long tongue appearing to moisten his lips. Defensively my stomach clenches and my knees lock, and I become very much aware of the dagger I wear strapped to my forearm, hidden by my sleeve.  
  
"*My* Lady..." Gríma purrs. I know as well as there is breath in my body that I did not imagine the emphasis he placed upon the possessive. It is not his right, I want to yell, to rail in fury - but I cannot. As he bows before me slowly, mocking me under the guise of graciousness, the bastard is savouring each moment of my impotent fury.  
  
Never again will he entrap me thus! Those pale, lustful eyes hold my own gaze in a death grip even as he touches the back of my hand with his lips: there is a dark promise there. I can hear his poisonous voice, sickly sweet as a badly made mead wine, whispering to me, to only me, even though he speaks not a word: This is but the first of many submissions, Lady...  
  
With an effort of will I manage not to tremble, find the strength to swallow the bile that has risen up my throat, and I bob a polite curtsy to my Uncle. One foot in front of the other, slowly, slowly: I will never, ever give Gríma the satisfaction of running from him. Even though my head is swimming   
and I feel positively ill, I do not run. Careful dignity until I feel the heavy oaken doors creek closed behind me.  
  
Then I gather my skirts and break into a run, like the hind with dogs snapping at her heels, not stopping until I step out into the ramparts of the Golden Hall. The wind is harsh upon my face, drawing unwilling tears before I close my eyes against it. It cuts through my gown like a knife,   
sending its chill through my skin down deep into my bones. The cold is oddly comforting - and why would it not be to one made of ice?  
  
Folding my arms across my chest, the breath I have been holding is finally expelled with an almost-sob. The icy ferocity of the wind is soothing - burning away the heat of shame from me, chilling the angry fire in my blood.  
  
I dare not dream of an ending to this chase that does not involve me stumbling, falling and being set upon by that hound - the base, fell cur - that pursues me. Hope is illusive, gone with girlish dreams of being loved by a noble man with a gentle heart. Happiness is fleeting, found briefly and illuminating my ever-shrinking world with briefer and briefer flares of light. He will not have me - I swear that upon the proud blood of the House of Eorl that flows in my veins, upon the grave of my parents... and yet I cannot foresee an end to this until he does.  



	2. Untouchable, Undone (Aragorn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before Eowyn finds her happy ending with Faramir, she knew fear and sorrow...

An uncle's premature dotage and miraculous recovery drew pity and relief from me - yet never a tear. Cousin's death stabbed with a fell blade of sorrow, but the words of the Eorlingas were proved true: Éowyn of Rohan is cold and resolute. Lustful eyes and dark intent filled my spirit with despair, and yet I stood defiant. Born of the House of Eorl into these days, I have borne much that would make a man of sterner blood weep and despair: though pain and grief have made me sob, I have not wept since my mother followed my father into an early grave. I thought I had no more tears to shed until tonight when, almost in the same breath, he upon whose shoulders I had laid my salvation and before whose feet I had lain my heart dealt me a blow that I shall not recover from.

He spoke to me of the Battle of Helm's Deep as one warrior to another, not a man condescending to a woman; yet another kindness shown me. With sympathy and tenderness he looked upon me, not pity: how rare such a comfort is... But when he spoke of his next destination, I felt something inside me die. The Paths of the Dead will consume him, and Middle-Earth will lose its best hope of surviving the Dark Lord... 

Hope was something he brought to Edoras, something I had thought long gone from these lands that would never return. My heart, too, he warmed with the barest whisper of a dream. A dream that lasted even when he gently alluded that his heart may be given to another. It stung; I do not deny it, but the news of his intent to walk the Paths of the Dead had numbed me to everything else. I begged with him to turn from this folly, or if he would not to take me with him. Yes, the haughty White Lady actually debased herself enough to beg; I had hoped the sacrifice of my pride would be a fitting proxy for his precious blood. Apparently it was not: his mind is bent upon a course that will bring him only to his own destruction. 

Aragorn was all that I would hope that I would have been, had I been lucky enough to be born in a male body. Never, in all my dark despair, had I dared to dream that the 'Prince Charming' of all those fairytales I had scoffed at would truly live and breathe. That the dreams and ideals that I had thought fruitless, pointless, would be embodied in one man. And yet they are in him. I did not believe that you could see someone's soul in their eyes: but in the eyes of the man who will leave here in the morn for a pointless death I can see everything worth living for. 

He is the son of a King: that much is evident in the slightest movement, and even the stillness he normally holds himself with. There is a nobility that he exudes that is hard to miss, that captures the eye and demands attention. He is utterly unconscious of it, naturally, as all worthy of their regal bloodlines ought to be, but I can see it. His majesty and goodness shine upon my face like the long-absent sun and I dare not stare directly on him, lest I be blinded! 

Upon first glance he was not much to look at, a scruffy Ranger clad in Elvish grey. He spoke not a word as the wizard Gandalf and Wormtongue argued rhetoric, but he was taking it all in. Even from behind the King's throne I could see he was as keenly alert as the Elf by his side. Keenly alert, and acutely aware of the absence of his sword, if I correctly interpreted the slight awkwardness I thought I perceived in his posture. On the surface, this man did not seem much at all. But I have oft resented being judged myself purely upon appearances, so I thought to look again as I was leaving the room. 

That which I saw stole my breath away. 

Twas only for a brief instant that his steel-grey eyes held mine own curious green gaze, but in that instant everything changed. Truths that I once held as immutable melted away like the morning dew upon the petals of a rose as the day grows warm. And I, whom men have called untouchable, was undone by that simple glance. 

From the high tower that I had scaled to keep myself safe I tumbled down, down, down... only to be caught up once again in his eyes. In that instant I saw through the unwashed, unkempt facade to the true power and majesty of the man I have come to know as Aragorn, Son of Arathorn. In that same heartbeat I was inside out, humbled in a moment's worship. My one breathless thought before I fled for dignity's sake was simple: I knew that I loved him. 

For that dear love, and for the fate of all, when he rides away from here tomorrow, I know that I shall mourn him. I take my only comfort in the knowledge that I will not mourn for long, for upon confirmation of his death I shall surely die too. 


	3. Gift of a Gentle Heart (Faramir)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before Eowyn finds her happy ending with Faramir, she knew fear and sorrow...

>   
>  _The Lady Éowyn wore a great blue mantle of the colour of deep summer-night, and it was set with silver stars about hem and throat. Faramir had sent for this robe and had wrapped it about her; and he thought that she looked fair and queenly indeed as she stood there at his side. The mantle was wrought for his mother, Finduilas of Amroth, who died untimely, and was to him but a memory of loveliness in far days and of his first grief; and her robe seemed to him raiment fitting for the beauty and sadness of Éowyn._
> 
>     -- RoTK: The Steward  & The King   
> 

My tender shadow returns to me again from whatever urgent business had occurred to him a short while ago. He had smiled at me, and asked me to wait for him here. The sparkle in his eyes encouraged me to do so, thus I have been standing here shivering - impatiently waiting upon his return. 

For five days now Faramir and I have walked together in the gardens, or upon the Walls of the City as we do today. The temperate weather that Gondor has been enjoying has been replaced with a cold that blows in upon a fell wind from the North. It darkens both the skies above the White City and, I fear, the hearts within. It would be wiser, warmer, to walk within the shelter of these walls, but there is a warrior-heart in his breast as strong as my own: we cannot be on the battlefield, and yet we defy the Darkness in small ways. Because we can, and because we must. 

And if the price of defiance is a chill... well, never let it be said that I cannot be stubborn. 

He approaches and his 'urgent business' becomes apparent - and very forgivable - as he pulls a deep blue mantle wrought of a luscious, thick lambswool over my shoulders. His hands, abnormally gentle for one who wields a sword, linger briefly to aid me, should I need assistance in fastening the clasp. The rich folds of material banish the chill that was seeping into my very bones from the icy wind and I gratefully curl into it. 

"Mmm..." Crossing my unbroken arm in the same manner as the one in the sling underneath to gather the warmth closer, it's almost like being enfolded in a pair of strong arms: the fairytale embrace that keeps you safe from the cold. Perhaps that is the intent in the making of this garment... and in the giving of it. 

I look up at Faramir: there is warmth in those wise grey eyes that would rival this extravagant gift. Knowing the Steward as I have come to upon our walks, I can say without arrogance that the intent I would read into this gift was there: to keep me warm and safe... He has been taking care of me one way or another since our acquaintance began... but it is too much of a gentleman to pull me close and warm me himself, no matter how he would wish to. And he does wish it, I can read it in his eyes. I do not show that I can see that there, though, but merely smile at him. Somehow my smile is not forced. 

"Thank you," a little shrug of my shoulders to bring the star-spangled collar further up around my ears, "it's beautiful." 

Please do not take this as an opening to tell me again that I, too, am beautiful. I do not feel that I am, and yet I cannot bear to see the hurt on your face when I tell you that. 

"It was made for my mother," he tells me, one hand smoothing out the collar so that the embroidered strip of silver stars is not twisted upon itself. "My memories of her are vague - I was young when she died - but I do remember her wearing this." For a moment my companion escapes this uncertain world to the safety of his memories... but only for a moment and then his eyes focus upon me once more. "It suits you." 

We walk in step with one another again: his longer stride matched easily by my own shorter, quicker gait. He speaks of his mother: of the grief that took her life, of his memories of her pining -trapped in an unhappy marriage- for the comfort of her home until that pain took her life. He speaks, and I listen: to that which he is saying, and that which he is not. I am not unlike the Lady Finduilas, it seems, "like unto her in beauty and grief" he offers at one point - ready to abandon subtlety to make his point vividly. For one as eloquent as the Steward has been in conversation, it is quite the sacrifice to make; and yet it is not done, it seems, to condescend to me. Merely to prevent my mind from wilfully twisting his words into that which I want to hear, or that which I could dismiss. Ah, Faramir, how do you know me so well? 

Yes, I am like unto that Lady: almost a prisoner within the walls of the White City, my heart fixed firmly upon something that I may never again lay eyes upon in this life. Is it the folly that it would seem to be? Through my lashes I regard my companion - he is brave, handsome and he has never been anything other than kind and tender toward me. He looks not on me like a delicate thing to be pitied, nor some gilded treasure to be coveted: Faramir's gaze, somehow, is knowing. He looks upon me as if he truly sees me for all that I am; and as if all that I am is precious. I have been a less-contented prisoner of far worse jailers... 

And here in the White City, I dwell not in an unpleasant prison. The Houses of Healing are peaceful, and those who populate them have not the raw desperation that so many of the Eorlingas exuded before the Grey Pilgrim liberated my Uncle. Though I am hostage to the Warden, a foreign woman in a land without a tradition of Shieldmaids, here I am a hero. 'Lady of the Shield-Arm' I have heard the Gondorrim call me, and I do not lack for anything here. In truth, I have been in worse prisons - some even of my own making. 

The enormous irony of being lauded as a hero is not lost upon me: I am honoured for my fearlessness as much as for slaying the Witch-King. But that which they all consider courage was, perhaps, the greatest act of cowardice in my life. It is easy to be conventionally fearless upon the battlefield when death is that which you seek. When having to find a way to carry on living is more frightening than dying... 

Faramir's hand touches my shoulder - softly and to the right of the knot that holds my sling in place-, and I realise that I have been lost in my reverie a little longer than his charming company warrants. "Éowyn?" The concern is there in his eyes, but he does not baby me: instead permitting humour to colour that rich voice. "Have I finally succeeded in boring you into submission?" 

My eyebrows rise, a wry smile curling my lips, as he no doubt intended. A look passes between us - I need say nothing, he ducks his head faux-apologetically and his eyes dance with mirth. Oh, he is beautiful: kind, warm and gentle. I am lucky to count such a man as my friend... 

With an exaggerated air of weary tolerance I answer him: "My mind was occupied, my Lord Steward, with thoughts of your unstinting kindness toward me... and of my own gratitude towards thee." The words are sincere, even though the manner in which they are spoken is teasing. Faramir is a man intelligent enough to discern truth, though it is hidden in the guise of jest. 

A surprised laugh bubbles out of me as he bends suddenly in a deep courtly bow; a laugh that dies suddenly as he reaches his hand out for my own. In that instant am back in my Uncle's Hall, and my hand is not lightly resting upon Faramir's gentle callused palm, but is, instead, clutched in Gríma's clammy, boney grip. 

_//*My* Lady//_

In that instant, the bile rises in my throat and I am again that helpless, lonely girl. And I do not want to be her again. 

Somehow, even through the bitterness of memory, I am able to focus on the Steward's grey eyes: an anchor in this storm inside my mind. What I see could take my breath away... if I would let it. But I won't - yet. When I fell for the Lord Aragorn, it was done fast and blindly: I saw in him that which I wished to, and ignored the rest. He was supposed to be the noble lord that all young women dream of - the prince upon the white steed, the hero. I am a hero in my own right now, and I no longer need to be rescued. 

"Éowyn?" There is something frantic in your voice, Faramir: have I paled so dramatically? 

Yes, the Lady of the Shield-Arm does not need to be rescued, and somehow, Faramir, I do not chafe at being rescued by you from the pain of my own memories. I clasp the hand that now hovers tentatively, its owner unsure of touching me due to the extremity of my reaction. "I am...well," I give his fingers a little squeeze. He squeezes back. "Memories..." I offer as my explanation and he nods, somehow understanding either the thrall that the past, however unpleasant, can hold you in, or possibly just understanding that I don't want to talk about it. 

"Your gratitude, Eowyn, is all that I would ask for in return for the mantle." His voice is shy, sweet. "Your gratitude, and another smile...?" 

Could anyone resist so charming a request? It is beyond me, I know, and I duck my head bashfully: there is a blush beginning to paint upon my cheeks. I never blush. Ever. But he places such importance on my happiness - the way he works at trying to make me smile? On any other, I think I should scorn it as pathetic - like a puppy dog wagging its tail to try to please its master. But on Faramir, the devotion warms me: he makes me feel like the centre of his world. 

His hand releases mine, only to lift my chin with the very tips of his fingers: I look up at him, and my heart is thumping in my chest. Faramir has ducked his head, and there is but a breath of anticipation between us. Looking up into his deep grey eyes, I am convinced he is about to kiss me. 

And in that instant, though the revelation shocks me deeply, I want him to kiss me. 

When he merely (merely! ha!) touches his forehead against mine, I am disappointed for the briefest of seconds before finding myself trembling a little at this intimacy, which seems deeper than any kiss could be, somehow. His dark hair hangs down around both our faces as a silky curtain that smells of leather and rain, with the lingering touch of blessed athelas plant. 

Just when he has become the air I am breathing, he moves away - clearly feeling he has taken a liberty that he should not have. 

Disappointed on a level that I do not truly comprehend, I turn away from him to look North. To look toward Mordor, where all our hopes and dreams are being fought for... Where he who will be King fights to give his people a tomorrow: perhaps tomorrow will belong to Faramir and I. 

He turns North-ward, too, and I fancy that - maybe - his thoughts are turned in the same direction as mine, too... 


End file.
